Even Big Boys Get The Blues

Zane’s yearly checkup was yesterday. Lot of fun weighing, measuring, poking, prodding, and exploring the office. And then it was time for shots. The Doctor said he had four left to get and could do all of them now or two now and the other two at next year’s appointment. I decided we should confer with the boy who was going to get them.

How many shots would you like, two or four?
“Uh, one?”
That’s not a choice, two or four.
“Oh. Two.”
They’ll give you two this year and two next year, unless you want to do all of them now. So, just two?
“Yes, two. Uh, no, four.”
Are you sure? Four shots?
“Yes.”

Now, he may have been thinking we were just talking in abstract terms about something totally different or maybe just didn’t quite remember the whole “shots” thing. Still, he hopped up on the table when the time came, we all helped brace him while he remained calm at least until the first shot hit. Then he got a I’ve been betrayed! look in his face and the calm composer was pretty much gone.

He didn’t like the second, third, or fourth shot any more than the first one and there were a few tears after it was all done. A little daddy hugging and then a chance to look at FOUR bandaids seemed to clear things up. He mentioned it a couple times afterwards and to the guys at my office when we swung by, but that was pretty much it. The plus side? He doesn’t get anymore shots until he turns eleven!